


Swap

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1960s, Class Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, Master/Slave, Playboy Club - Freeform, Romance, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A romantic story, with an unfortunate bout of hypnotism in the middle.





	1. Chapter 1

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

**New York City, 1964.**

You know what Part One of my philosophy in life is?  **_Life is short, we’re only here for so long, and you gotta grab as much of it as you can while you’re here._**

Take me, for example.  Not long ago, I was just a farm girl, recently finished high school, and wondering if I wanted to spend all my days in Birchseed, Iowa.  On a whim, I entered the Marshall County Beauty Pageant… and won!

And it turns that out in the audience, there was a Des Moines talent scout.  I still remember the guy: Stan McMasters.  Incredibly thin, **_amazingly_** fast talker.  Mr. McMasters represented a number of different clients, and over coffee at Smiths’ Diner, he interviewed me on their behalf.

“You’re gorgeous, Tricia, but I don’t think you’re suitable for acting or modeling,” he told me bluntly.  “You don’t have the training.  However, there is something I think you’d be perfect for.”

“What?” I asked, oh-so curious.

“Playboy Bunny,” replied Mr. McMasters.

I think my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.  Weren’t the Bunnies those shameful ladies who posed in nudie magazines?

“Oh no,” Mr. McMasters said quickly.  He dipped into his briefcase, yanking out several photos.  I peered at each; they showed beautiful, shapely young women dressed in what looked like a black one-piece bathing suit, fishnet stockings, high heels, and a silly little collar around their necks.  Oh, and bunny ears.  What a costume!

“Playboy Bunnies work at the Playboy Clubs,” explained Mr. McMasters.  “They serve the drinks, take the coats, and cater to the customers.”  He added firmly, “Nothing illicit or immoral.”

“Playboy is opening a new club in New York City,” the talent scout continued.  “You know what the Playboy Club is, right?”

I had no idea.

Mr. McMasters nodded.  “Its a social club for men.  Respectable gentlemen pay a membership fee, and then they go to the club to talk amongst themselves, listen to jazz, shoot pool, maybe play cards, that sort of thing.”

With a firm stare, he said, “But there’s **_no sex_**.  None.  Just men having a good time with their friends.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

“There’s an open call for pretty girls like yourself.  You would leave in a few weeks, then work in New York as long as you want.”

I would be bussed to New York City, given a little room and board, and all I had to do was be some kind of sexy hostess?  Of course I jumped at that chance!  What nineteen-year-old girl wouldn’t want to live in New York City?

Which brings me to the Part Two of my philosophy in life:  **_Always forgive._**

When I told my best friend, Jesse Hallows, what I was about to do, she wrinkled her nose in disapproval.  “Eww, Tricia!” she scolded me.  “Don’t you know that _Playboy_ is a company of ill repute?”  She spoke the company name as if it was a swear word.  “You’ll go to the devil, for sure!”

And then Jesse refused to speak with me.  Privately, I thought she was jealous, but I really didn’t know.  Of course I was stung when she turned her back.

But on the long bus ride, I thought things over.  I decided to forgive Jess.  I might move back to Birchseed in a year, who knows?  It would be nice to have a friend there rather than hold some silly grudge.

*****

New York City was both scary and thrilling.  So many people!  And all in a rush!

Within a week, I was living in a cramped girls’ dormitory and working down the block at the Playboy Club.  The Bunny costume was tight and itchy, but it looked good on me, and that was all that mattered.  And I had a flair for handling our customers.

Our customers.  Oh Lord, what to say about our customers?

They are always white men, in their forties, fifties or sixties.  Occasionally, we get a grandpa.  They tromp into the club, radiating too much confidence, slapping one another on the back.  They hit on us Bunnies, usually making tasteless jokes about our bodies.  And they like to bark orders, as if they were Mr. Hefner himself.

Take Mr. Beckers.  I don’t know what he does professionally, but he wants everyone to know he is a Very Important Man.  When he arrives, he always wants a whiskey and Roi-Tan cigar immediately, as if he can’t possibly function without them.  Whenever a Bunny serves him, he bellows, “Thanks, doll!” and pats their bum.  He loves patting our bottoms.

Most of the gentlemen are harmless.  Arrogant and loud, but harmless.  When I started as a Bunny, I quickly realized that they flock to the Playboy Club because they want to feel important, respected.  But if you watch these guys carefully, you’ll note that they drop their bluster the instant they think they aren’t being watched.  Preening peacocks, the lot of them.

*****

After three months at the Club, I was made Head Cigar Girl.  I had to memorize our Smoking Menu, and be able to recite a quip or two about each brand.  Tiparillos?  _Thick, rich flavor._   Hudson Bay Sigaren?  _Velvet aroma, with a touch of spice._   R. G. Dun?  _Rugged taste, not for the timid._   You get the idea.  _Playboy_ wanted me to appear as a cigar expert.

So I now walk the floor, carrying my vending tray before me, smiling and making idle chatter with the customers.  I sell them cigars and laugh at their stale jokes.  I ignore their wandering eyes and put up with their wandering hands.  And it goes without saying, I **_never_** date or accept any of their lewd propositions.

Well…  never turn down an opportunity life presents you, right?  I might hook up with a customer.  But that guy would **_really_** have to be something special.

*****

It is a frosty Saturday night.  The snow has yet to fall, but we all know it will.  We’re only supposed to get a light dusting, not even an inch.

I am on the floor, surveying the customers.  A gaggle of five gentlemen arrive, bustling in from the cold.  Four of them are late forties, overweight, balding, red-faced from the cold.  Our usual clientele.

But the fifth?  This guy is easily twenty years old, maybe younger?  Right away, I think he is cute.  Handsome, clean-cut, with puppy-dog brown eyes and the skinny body of an athlete.  I clap eyes on his little ski-jump nose and think, _Awww, he’s adorable_.

And he is!  Just adorable.

The gentlemen thrust their coats at Beth, our Greeting Bunny, and immediately launch into a bawdy conversation about her breasts.  But the young fellow stands off to the side.  He looks embarrassed.

I approach.  “Something to smoke, gentlemen?” I ask.

The older gents beam at me, and select one cigar each.

“Here, boy,” the eldest says, clapping the young fellow on the shoulder, “have one.  Its on me.”

The Boy protests, but his older comrades insist.

“Fine,” the Boy shrugs.  He turns those puppy-dog eyes on me.  “Which brand do you recommend?”

“Hmm.  Why don’t you try a Castella?” I suggest, playing the tobacconist expert.  “Lightweight, with a delicate flavor.”

My young customer smiles – _so cute_ – and nods once.  As I hand over the cigar, our fingertips touch.

During our whole exchange, he never once looked down at my body.  Only into my eyes.

*****

Around eleven PM, I pop out the back entrance for my cigarette break.  We Bunnies are supposed to stay in the Girl Break Room, but I just don’t feel like it.  I want to taste fresh air and see if the snow is falling yet.  So I wrap my coat over my bare shoulders and outside I go.

On the scaffolding next to the loading dock, there is a fellow, a customer, standing alone, staring at the night skyline.  Odd.  Why would any customer come to the Playboy Club only to hang out in the back alley?

But then gentlemen turns to look at me, and I get it immediately.  It is that young fellow, the quiet guy with the puppy-dog eyes.  The fellow who’d been dragged here by an older uncle or fraternity buddy or boss or something.

The fellow and I regard one another.  Then, he approaches.  I like the confidence in his step.

“Hello there,” he says, good-naturedly.  “I’m Greg.  Greg McGallows.”

Inside, I smile.  He’s turning on the charm for me.  Man, he’s got a lot of charm.

“Well hello, Greg McGallows,” I reply, popping a cigarette between my lips.  “You got a light?”

“For you?” he says with mock gallantry.  “Ah, but of course.”

A chrome Zippo lighter appears in his hand.  I bend forward to light up.

“You know,” Greg says, half-teasing, “my doctor says smoking is horrible for you.”

“Is that so?” I retort, exhaling.

“Oh, its terrible,” Greg grins.  His eyes flash, and the he then produces the Castella I’d sold him not an hour earlier and inserts it into his jaws.

I like his playful flirting; teasing, but not cocky or crude.  Not forceful or suggestive at all.  Greg McGallows is a one-of-a-kind.  I decide to flirt back.

“I know what you are,” I announce, pointing my cigarette directly at the boy.

Greg’s eyebrows rise.

“You’re a stuffy ol’ **_stick-in-the-mud_** ,” I say, lowering my voice to mockingly pronounce _stick-in-the-mud_.  “A girl can’t have a good time around you.”

“Oh?” he says, faking innocence.

“You’re a **_troublemaker_** ,” I tease.  “A scallywag.”

Greg pretends to be shocked.  “The mouth on you…!” he exclaims.

“ ** _Scall-lee-wag_** ,” I repeat.  My smile is growing wider.  His is too.

Tiny snowflakes appear, sprinkling about us in the cold night air.  Greg moves a little closer.

I push a single, playful finger against Greg’s chest.  “ _Scallywag,_ ” I accuse him, in a quiet voice, my smile positively glowing.

Greg laughs quietly, then leans in and kisses me.  His lips feel wonderful.

*****

Greg and I begin seeing one another.  It’s a cloak-and-dagger affair; I don’t want my roommates or the Playboy Club to know I’m dating someone I met as a customer.  And Greg, who attends school, doesn’t want his classmates to know he’s stepping out with a Playboy Bunny.  So we do what we can to keep our courting strictly hush-hush.

We meet to see movies, carriage rides in Central Park, eat dumplings in Chinatown.  He is always immaculately dressed, always in a different black suit, always pressed.  I begin to sense that he comes from considerable privilege.

Details about his life are scarce.  Greg does mention that he has an uncle who runs a bookstore in Greenwich Village, Alice’s Rabbit Hole.  Apparently he occasionally uses the place as a study haven.

But other than that, Greg **_never_** discusses his life as a student.  He never talks about classes, never mentions his studies, and absolutely never breathes so much as a peep about his friends.  The one time I get a little nosey and prod him a little, he clams up immediately.

I don’t think Greg is trying to deceive me.  I’m not sure why he doesn’t want to talk about this part of his life, but I think he’s… well, he’s embarrassed somehow.  He comes from an old, rich family; I’m a poor farm girl who took a chance on life in the big city.  I believe that Greg just wants me to feel comfortable with him.

Which I do.

*****

Early on, a critical moment arises in my relationship with Greg.  It is early evening, and we are strolling along Tompkins Square Park, our bellies full from dining at _La Bacio Sottile_.  Another fresh snow has finished falling, and the sidewalks are not shoveled yet.  Our boots crunch in the crisp snow.

Greg and I discuss the upcoming baseball season.  I am midstep when something white and wet and heavy shoots through the air and smacks me right in the chest!  I shriek, and topple backwards.  I land unceremoniously on the frosted cobblestones.

It takes a second before I realize; _that was a snowball!_   There are teenagers in the park having a pitched battle, and I just got hit by an errant volley.

Greg’s eyes flare.  Decorum demands that he stand up to protect the honor of his lady.

“ ** _Hey!_** ” he bellows at the teens.

“Greg,” I say quickly, scrambling to my feet.  “Its okay.”

My fellow stares at me, uncertain what to think.

I brush myself off and flash a quick smile.  “I’m fine,” I assure Greg.  Then I take his arm and continue our walk, determined to make it seem like nothing happened.

Greg is not convinced.  “Those boys…” he protests, uncertain.  “Well, you could have been hurt had you banged your head-“

“But I didn’t,” I say soothingly.  “They’re just kids.  What’s the harm?”

“Someone ought to teach them some respect,” growls my protective boyfriend.

I laugh quietly, patting Greg’s arm.  “Something you should know about me,” I tell him.  “As much as I can, I choose to forgive.  Life is **_much_** richer that way.”

“You haven’t lived in New York long, have you?” Greg asks cynically.

“Well, maybe New York should be more like me,” I say brightly.

Greg studies me carefully moment.  Then he smiles, as if I am being hopelessly silly.

“Maybe,” he allows with a small smile.

*****

As we continue dating and getting closer, I am impressed at how Greg seems to know the city so well.  He greets maitre’d’s and doormen by their first names.  He then slips them a five or a ten, and we have the finest table in the house.  Our best night out is when he surprises me with gala tickets to the Roosevelt Room – good thing I could borrow a ballgown from my roommate Suzie!

I like Greg.  I like him a lot.  While he is quiet and reserved, I dig his sweet good looks and modest nature.

Most guys with his money and connections would flaunt.  Not Greg.  He likes just talking with me.

And while he obviously is attracted to my body, Greg doesn’t push to get me in bed.  I tease him, make sure he is interested, but don’t do anything more than make out for the first few months.

I confess, I half-expected Greg would find another pretty face and move on.  I was also a little worried that he would grow jealous of the other customers at the Club.  A Playboy Bunny, after all, is there to flirt to earn her tips.  Most guys wouldn’t understand that flirting isn’t cheating.

But as the months wear on, I like Greg more and more.  He seems fond of me.  I love how his eyes light up when we first see each other for our next date.  I love how he grins when I playfully insult him.  I love how he always opens the taxi door for me or always remembers that my favorite flower is a white orchid.  I love his kisses.

I’ve never wanted to spend so much time with a boy before.

*****

It is not until spring comes that I get my first peak inside Greg’s world.

He and I are in Harlem, snuggled behind a private table in the back of one of the Negro jazz clubs.  Playboy’s Mr. Hefner **_loves_** jazz, and so we Bunnies hear a lot of it when at work.  But the band here is much better.  I think that the saxophone player is quite sexy.

As the third set begins, a young man in a dark suit glides by our table.  This fellow glances at Greg, then clearly does a double-take.

“Greg?” he exclaims.

I feel my boyfriend tense.

This new fellow sits at our table without an invitation.  He is in his early twenties, with the same clean-cut demeanor as Greg.  No-where near as handsome, though.

“Greg!” the guy repeats.  “Good golly, I thought that was you!”

“Hi Will,” Greg says, his tone sour.

Will looks at me, his greedy eyes swarming over my cleavage.  A wicked smile lights up his eyes.  “And who is this?” he asks.

“I’m Tricia,” I say, extending one hand.

Will accepts it, kissing my knuckles like I am a duchess or something.  “Well, well, Greggie boy,” he smirks.  “Looks like you’ve been holding out on us.  You got any other dames as ravishing as this one?”

Greg shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Will gawks at me; I don’t like his hungry expression.  “Well, you’ve got to bring Little Miss Gorgeous here to the mixer next week,” he pronounces.  “It wouldn’t be a party without her, right?”

“…sure, Will,” Greg says.

“I’ll tell Duke that you’re both coming,” Will promises, before staring at my chest one last time.

*****

The night, Greg insists in accompanying me in my cab ride home.  He’s quieter than usual.

I give up on light chatter, and decide to ask him point-blank about Will.

My boyfriend sighs.  “Will is a classmate,” he admits.  “Not the nicest guy, but he’ll be running a big corporation someday.  His father is well-connected.”

I nods.  “So… what’s this mixer he mentioned?” I ask.

Greg’s answer is quick and firm: “Oh, we don’t want to go to that.”

*****

But a week later, my boyfriend changes his mind.  We are dining in Midtown when he abruptly changes the subject.  “I think we should go to my fraternity’s mixer,” he sighs, reluctantly.

I look at him, surprised.  Greg seemed so adamant that we **_not_** attend earlier; why the reversal?

“Look,” Greg says, his voice lowered but worried, “my classmates can be… judgmental.  And old-fashioned.  Just don’t tell them where you work.”

*****

 


	2. Chapter 2

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

Friday night is the mixer.  Greg insists we meet at a West Side coffee shop beforehand.  I wear my one black party dress, the one with the high collar and bare arms.  I compliment it with matching evening gloves and red heels.  My hair is up in a tight, neat bun, thanks to my brilliant roommate, and my makeup is perfectly applied.  In my grey overcoat, I am respectable and not overly sexy.  Greg did ask for conservative, right?

After scrutinizing me with a worried expression, my boyfriend seems to relax.  “You should be okay,” he mumbles.  “Let’s get this over with.”

Greg’s concern is endearing, but for crying out loud… we’re going to a college mixer.  Not a royal wedding.

“You know what you’re being?” I tease.  “You’re being a stuffy ol’ **_stick-in-the-mud_**.”  I’m hoping my usual playful insult will melt his dark mood.

“Hmmgh,” Greg frowns.

*****

We walk three blocks up Broadway, arm-in-arm, not speaking.  I am surprised at how stressed Greg is.

At Sixty-Seventh Street, we turn right.  There is a luxury apartment building dominating the block here; Greg walks in, flashing a quick grin at the doormen.  I can tell he is trying to look relaxed.

The servants take our coats.  “Thank you, Mr. McGallows,” the oldest doorman says.  “Go on right up, the party’s already started.”

Greg and I step into an oak-paneled elevator, with thick red carpet and a miniature chandelier.  The elevator operator nods at us, then pulls the lever for the top floor.

*****

Soon we are in a lavish apartment suite, decorated as if a French aristocrat lives here.  Everywhere you look, there are ornate paintings and marble statues.  I’ve seen the VIP club rooms at the Playboy Club, which Mr. Hefner wanted to rival the Presidential Suite of any Five Star Hotel.  Well, the designers of this pad would make Mr. Hefner spin with jealousy.

The apartment is chock full of people, young people, all dressed impeccably, all laughing and having a good time.  The men are clad in almost-uniform black suits, with thin black ties and Italian shoes.  They come in all body shapes, but all have the same clean, neat haircut.  Half of them are smoking pipes.  The women are either very plump or very scrawny.  Regardless, they are all elegantly dressed.  Their hair and makeup is elaborate, and some of them are wearing fine jewels.  My word!

And with a glance I can tell you; this party has absolutely no blacks and no Jews.

As I take stock, eyes all around the room began to fall on Greg and me.  Mostly me.  My sense is that these people all know one another, and so I am the obvious newcomer.

And… this will sound conceded… the women here aren’t all that pretty, and I am.  I have the curvy Playboy body, and too late, I realize how my dress accentuates my figure.  Right away, I feel the men undress me with their leering stares and the ladies simmer in resentment at my entrance.

I’m used to men gazing at me with obvious carnal thoughts.  Why it bothers me so much now… I can’t say.  I feel naked.  I don’t like it.

A small woman in an all-black dress drifts by, carrying a try of champagne flutes.  She hands one to me and another to Greg without a word.

For the first time, I notice classical music playing softly on the hi-fi.

Jeepers, I was expecting a college party, with tweed jackets, hand-rolled cigarettes, and cheap beer.  I thought we’d be in a dank loft with cinder-block bookshelves and a single record player.  I certainly never imagined seventeenth-century art and double-breasted suits.

 “These,” I whisper to Greg, “are your **_classmates?_** ”

“The men are,” Greg allows.  “My school is, er…”

“Elite?” I ask.

Greg nods, once.  I can tell he’s nervous.

“Why don’t we mingle for about an hour?” he says quietly to me.  “Then we’ll leave?”

I agree.

We wade into the throngs of people.  I notice right away; the men here are doing all the talking.  The women are silent, smiling when their dates tell a joke, but otherwise docile.

*****

After twenty minutes, I am ready to leave.  This party is nothing but young men boasting.  The women are in attendance, but basically ignored.

I am debating if I wanted to excuse myself – and never come back – when I feel a tug on my elbow.  Its Will, that lecherous slimeball Greg and I met at the jazz club.

“Hey dollface,” Will says to me.

I force a smile.

“Glad you could make it,” Will says.  ”Listen, have you met Duke?”

I am holding Greg’s arm.  At the mention of that name, I feel Greg’s muscles tighten.

“Duke?” I smile politely.  “No, I’m afraid not.”

“He heard about you,” says Will.  “He’ll be bent out of shape if you don’t pay your respects.  Com’on.”

“Actually,” Greg interrupts quickly, “we were thinking of going.  Tricia’s mom, uh, is sick tonight, she needs-“

“Aw come off it, Greggie,” scoffs Will.  “You can’t come here and **_not_** pay your respects, right?  Duke wouldn’t like it.”

Without another word, Will takes my arm and tows me through the apartment, Greg in pursuit.  I feel like I am being kidnapped.

*****

Will leads us into an adjoining room, which must be a library or smoking parlor or something.  There are leather couches, bookcases, and in the center, a large, round poker table.  We enter just as a high-stakes hand is playing out.  There are a **_lot_** of chips on the table.

Sitting directly across from us is the largest guy at this party.  With the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen, a massive chest, thick neck, large, strong fingers, and arms the size of tree trunks, this guy is a mountain of muscle.  He must be a football player or a weightlifter or something.  Atop that hulking frame is a handsome face, with hard cheekbones, a thin nose, one very square chin and square white teeth.

This **_must_** be Duke.  There’s no-one else here who could remotely be otherwise.

Sitting around the table are other men, some with women standing behind them.  (Duke has one woman for each shoulder.)  The men have removed their suitcoats, and are intently studying their cards.  Duke glares at all of them with glowing eyes.

“In or not?” the big guy demands.  His voice sounds like iron.

One-by-one, the others fold.  Duke smirks, sweeping in his winnings with one massive paw.

His brown eyes glance up and his gaze locks with mine.  I have to admit… the man is attractive.

Duke peers at my face, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Well, now,” he exclaims, “who is **_this_**?”

“Hey Duke,” Greg says.  I almost forgot my boyfriend is here.

Duke stands, and he is even taller than I first thought.  Jeez, he must come from a long line of farmers or lumberjacks.

As the big guy strides up to me, I note how Greg and Will seem to shrink back, just a little.  The other guys at the table swivel about to follow Duke with their eyes.  It is obvious who is the king of this castle.

Duke lumbers up, taking my hand, and kissing it gently.  Didn’t Will do the same thing when I met him?  What is **_with_** these guys?

“Enchanted,” Duke says to me.

“I’m Tricia,” I say in way of introduction.

“Duke,” the big guys replies.

“Yeah, I figured that,” I crack.  “Is this your place?”

“This?” Duke says, as if noticing the apartment for the first time.  “Its actually one of the clubhouses for our fraternity.  Didn’t Greg tell you anything about our little society?”

“He didn’t,” I reply, throwing a glance at Greg.

My boyfriend looks crestfallen.  “We actually have to be going, Duke-“ he begins.

“Oh, you can stay a little longer,” insists Duke.  “We were just playing some cards.”  To me, he asks, “You don’t know Five Card Stud, do you dollface?”

I do, actually.  But Duke strikes me as pretty old-fashioned; he probably likes women to be pretty, dumb, and gullible.  Despite my better instincts, I decide to play along.  If only for Greg’s sake.

“Five Card What?” I demur.  “That’s a **_man’s_** game, right?”

“Damned right,” grins Duke.  He studies my face.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he remarks.  “Where did you and Greg hook up, baby cakes?”

Even without looking at him, I know Greg’s spine just stiffened.

“Me and Greg?” I say, still playing blonde.  “Oh, we’re old friends.  We go way back.”

“Huh,” Duke comments, studying my expression, and then Greg’s.  I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Hey Duke,” one of the card players says.  “You in for another hand?”

“Naw,” Duke declares, gazing at my hips, stomach, and chest.  “You know what?  Cards is a kids’ game.  Let’s do something far out.”

*****

The poker game is swept away.  Most of the party-goers now cram into the tiny library, curious about what Duke has in store.

“Okay,” Duke crows, “where’s Miles?”

A skinny boy detaches from the crowd.  Duke positively lights up when they clap eyes on one another.

“Ah, Miles!” the Big Man proclaims.  “Good to see you, man!  Does anyone here know what Miles’ special talent is?”

“Female body inspector!” a wise-ass from the back of the crowd shouts.  This prompts loud guffaws from the men.

Duke belly-laughs too, but waves his hands for quiet.  “No, no,” he trumpets.  “Miles here is a genuine hypnotist, isn’t that right, Miles?”  He throws a burly arm around Miles’ shoulders, nearly knocking the skinny boy to the ground.

Miles, delighted to be the center of attention, grins.  “Yeah!” he exclaims.  “I studied under-“

“I thought,” Duke interrupts, “we could do a little hypnotism here.  Whaddya say, fellows?”

The men stomp and cheer.  The women look faintly worried.

“Its settled,” declares Duke.  “Here’s what we’ll do.  Nadine?  Shelly?  Betty?  Come on up here.”

He points to the leather couches, clearly meaning for these women to sit.  The three girls grow pale, but their dates prod them.  Some of the other boys whoop and cheer.

Finally, all three women go to the couch and sit together.  They look terrified.

“Great!” Duke grins.  “Who else?  Hmmm…  How about Gretchen?  Luanne?  Wendy?  Mary Louise?”

Duke selects about ten women in total, who are all peer-pressured into sitting on those couches.  As the girls arrange themselves, it is fairly obvious that they were selected because they were the prettiest of the bunch.  Not one of them looks happy to have been chosen.

There is one seat left.  With a **_thunk_** in my heart, I realize who is about to get picked for that one.

I look up at Duke, who, sure enough, is grinning at me.  “Last but not least, dollface,” he mugs, and grandly gestures to that last seat.

All eyes on the room swing to stare at me.  Some of the men start softly chanting, “Hypno ** _tize_** …!  Hypno ** _tize_** …!  Hypno ** _tize_** …!”

This is like partaking in some weird, upper-crust cult.  I feel fairly silly with all this attention.

My eyes find Greg’s.  My boyfriend looks fairly horror-stricken.

“Com’on, dollface,” scoffs Duke.  “You’re holding up the show.”

A few things roll through my head at this point.  First and foremost, you know how I feel about living life to the fullest, right?  I’m all about new experiences.

But, **_com’on_**.  Duke isn’t picking all the pretty girls here because he thinks they are the best hypno-subjects.  This is some sick sexual power thing.  I just don’t dig that.

On the other hand…  I can’t be hypnotized.  I just can’t.  Hypnosis works on weak-willed fools, like Duncan Smith and Lilly Bancolli, and Mabel Foster, three kids from my class back in Birchseed.  When a hypnotist came to our school for a lecture and demonstration, of course I volunteered.  They went right under.  Nothing happened to me.

I sigh, rolling my eyes.  I could either insist on leaving, and possibly risk poor Greg losing face, or I could just go up there, let this Miles kid do his thing, and show them all that I’m the world’s worst hypnotic subject.

 _Fine,_ I think.

Ignoring the wolf-whistles and lewd remarks from the men, I go up to the couch, nestling in between Gretchen and Mary Louise.

Miles starts speaking to the crowd.

“Relax, ladies,” I mutter to the women next to me.  “I have a feeling this will be over rather quickly.”

*****


	3. Chapter 3

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

Miles has us girls sit with our backs straight, our hands in our lap, facing up, our heads held high.  He stands in the center of the room, asking each of us to breathe in, breath out, breathe in, breathe out.  We stare at him, following these banal instructions.

This is pretty much what I remembered from the last time someone tried to hypnotize me.  That guy – his name was Dr. Connors, I think – also had us breathe a lot while staring at something.  I guessed that the idea is to bore you into relaxing and then falling asleep.

Well, the boredom part is working, anyway.

Miles prattles on, never interrupting his repetitive patter for a moment.  I listen and stare at him as he wants, but honestly, nothing is happening.  I mean, **_nothing_**.  I’m not even sure Miles is paying attention to us as he blabbers on and on and on.

I steel a quick glance at Greg, who is only ten feet away, but looks positively crestfallen.  I flash him a small, reassuring smile.

“Eyes **_on me_** , please,” Miles chides me, and I jump just a little.  I guess he **_is_** watching us.

So, fine, I concentrate on Miles, studying his lean little face as he drones on.  He’s talking about breathing and muscles relaxing and feeling good, but as before, nothing is happening.  In a minute or two, he’ll realize I’m immune to hypnosis, and then Greg and I can get out of here.

I wonder if the other girls are getting hypnotized.  Maybe Miles is completely inept and this will be over sooner than I thought?

I’m surprised when a fat tear suddenly rolls down my cheek.  That’s odd.  You know how when you stare at something, like a movie screen, sometimes you don’t blink enough, and your eyes tear up?  I guess that’s what’s happened to me.  I could raise my hand to wipe it away, but Miles would only squawk again.  So I just blink my eyelids a few times.

Which seems to make things better.  My vision clears…

…at first.  But then, what the heck?  Miles looks blurrier than before.  I have to strain my eyes a little, bringing him back into focus.  So I blink my eyes some more.

What’s so weird is that my eyelids are slow to respond.  I close and open them again, and, man, its bizarre at how my slowly my own eyelids respond.  Its kind of like when you are in school and the teacher is superboring and you really just want to rest your eyes for a second.  You know what I mean?

Miles makes a mention of my arms and legs, and I realize I can’t move them.  I mean:  I don’t **_want_** to move them.  I could move them, of course, I just don’t feel like it.  They feel so comfortable right now.  Didn’t Miles just say I **_couldn’t_** move them?  Or did he say…  Ah, I’m not sure.  I think about it for a second, but now he’s talking about the muscles in my back relaxing.  I don’t feel like keeping up.

Hey, in about two minutes, this farce will be over, and I’ll be getting off this couch and out of this party.  I just have to wait it out.

Now Miles is talking about breathing again.  Its weird, every time I exhale, its like I feel my entire body deflate.  My dad owns a used car lot and he used to have one of those big clown balloons out front to attract customers.  I remember when I was six and he turned off the air; that clown slowly deflated to the ground.  That’s how I feel now.

I let my eyes close, and for some reason, they aren’t opening.  Huh.  Should I force them open?  I could.  I mean, if I wanted to.

Wait.  My body feels really, really weird.  I mean, weird, but in a good way.  My arms and legs are tingling and so relaxed.  Wait, I meant to say:  soooooooooooooooooooooo relaxed.  Its nice.  I once saw a movie about a woman who went to a spa and had a mud bath.  This must be what that mud bath feels like.

In my mind, I imagine I am naked and lying in a mud bath.  The mud is soft and warm and somehow smells wonderful, like fresh gingerbread.  I so love it.  I sigh happily, feeling the mud’s embrace permeate my nude body, blessing and relaxing every muscle.  I want to float in this relaxation forever, forever, forever!  Ahhhhh…!

I feel my head grow heavy and droop downward.  Miles is still talking, but with my eyes closed, his words sound like they are a million miles away.  Yet I hear him clearly, in my own thoughts.  That’s strange, but I don’t mind.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I realize Miles is standing before me, gently pushing me to my right.  My body doesn’t resist.  Like a rag doll, I tumble to the side, flopping across Gretchen’s lap.  Miles’ hand disappears, and then I feel Gretchen’s torso rest on top of mine.  She and I are literally lying on one another.

My relaxation grows even more powerful, and now I don’t want to move, to think, to do anything, but bask.  I feel Gretchen’s heart and lungs pumping against my body, and somehow, that makes me relax a thousand times more.

I’ve lost track of time, of even where I am.  This mud bath is so good, it is positively brainwashing me.  All I can do is lie still and **_love_** this relaxed feeling.

Miles is counting now, something about how each number sends us down deeper and deeper into relaxation.  I smile inside.  I want to go so much deeper.  Sooooooooo deep…

…and then…

I’ve lost track of what is happening next.  Miles is still talking, telling us that we will respond to his voice and his commands.  That sounds fine to me.  Somehow, I only want to listen and obey.  Its like my thoughts are enchanted with his words and everything the kid says is wonderful and I want to do it.

Miles starts talking to the other women, telling them things, things I don’t have to worry about.  I slip deeper under his control.

*****

Then I feel Miles’ hands on my shoulder again.

“ _Just the person I am touching now,_ ” he says.  “ _In a moment, you will find that your bottom is completely stuck to the couch.  The harder you try to stand up, the more you are completely unable to do so.  Furthermore, you will be convinced you have not and cannot be hypnotized.  Nod you head once if you understand._ ”

I understand everything Miles has said, although I don’t see how any of that is relevant to what is going on.  I’m just soaking in this relaxation feeling.

I allow my head to bob up and down, once.

Miles’ hand disappears.  He starts talking to another girl.

I sigh to myself, going back to my wonderful relaxation.  Seriously, this feeling is so much better than a deep sleep, late at night.  I wonder if-

*****

Suddenly my eyes fly open.  I see the bright room before me.  I feel my arms and legs come to life; its like they weren’t there a second before.

Miles is snapping his fingers, loudly.  The sound isn’t loud, but it affects me like an alarm clock.  I’m out of my dream-state and wide awake.

What happened?  More to the point… why am I lying on Gretchen’s lap?

I sit up, clearing my mind.  I look about.  My eyes are watering, and I need to wipe them.

I see Greg in the crowd; he’s staring at me anxiously.

“Alright, then!” Miles shouts, throwing out his arms.  “That’s hypnotism, everyone!”

The watching crowd applauds, especially the men.  Why are they clapping?  We haven’t done anything yet.  I’ve only been sitting on this couch for, what?  A minute?  Maybe less?

“Now, let’s talk to our contestants, shall we?” Miles says grandly.  He saunters up to Mary Louise, on my left.

“Hi there,” Miles says to her.

Mary Louise squints up at him, a little confused.  “Hello,” she says.

“I’m Miles,” he says, offering his hand.  “…and you are?”

Mary Louise’s face goes blank for a second.  “Mrs. Santa Claus,” she says.

That’s weird.  Why would she say that?

The men in the room laugh and applaud.

Miles smiles, leaning closer.  “I’m sorry,” he repeats.  “Could you introduce yourself again?”

“Mrs. Claus,” Mary Louise echoes, with perfect conviction.   “Mrs. Santa Claus.”

Miles travels up and down the couch, randomly interviewing the other girls.   For some reason, Nadine can’t remember her own name.  Betty can only say, “ _I’m a baaaaad widdle girl!_ ” in a squeaky, Betty Boop voice.  And Luanne can only bark like a dog.

Its all really weird, but I don’t give it much thought.  My body still feels super-relaxed, just great.

Miles stops before me.

“What do you think of all these ladies?” he asks me.

“I dunno,” I answer truthfully.

In a conspiratorial tone, Miles says, “Maybe they’re hypnotized?”

Its possible.  I shrug.

“Maybe **_you’re_** hypnotized?” Miles asks me.

I smile calmly and shake my head.  “I can’t be hypnotized,” I inform him.

“No?” Miles says.

“Uh-uh,” I insist.  “Sorry, it doesn’t work on me.”

The men hoot and cheer.  I have no idea what’s so funny.

The thin boy rubs his chin in mock thought.  “You’re sure…?” he presses.

Why is Miles going on like this?  I can’t be hypnotized.  Period.

“No,” I say plainly, then throw my up hands.

“Okay then,” Miles sighs.  “I guess you can go.  We’ll do the show without you.”

Finally!  Greg and I are out of here.

I lean forward, and…

That’s weird.

I frown, confused.

“Go on,” Miles tells me.  “You’re free to go.”

“Sure,” I say, and go to get up.

Something stops me.  I’m not sure what, but…

Miles asks, “Something wrong?”

I open my mouth, and these words come out:  “My bottom’s stuck!”

The moment I say it, I know its true.  So weird!  My bottom is, indeed, stuck to the couch seat.  Even now, as I struggle to get to my feet, my hindquarters refuse to budge.

The men roar with laughter.

Miles touches me on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry about it,” he tells me.  “ ** _Sleep!_** ”

He snaps his fingers.

*****

Instantly my eyes shut and I am plunged back down into my wonderful relaxation.  It feels even better this time.  Miles’ hands appear on my body and lower me back onto Gretchen’s legs.

I float in relaxation for what seems like a long, long time.  I am dimly aware of Miles putting the other girls back to sleep, which only makes me go deeper under his power.

*****

The next moments are strange, to say the least.  Miles is forever waking us girls up, talking to us, and then putting us back to sleep.  I am unable to resist any of his commands.  Whatever he tells me I to do while I am in that wonderful relaxation, I find I **_must_** obey later when I am awake.

You’d think that having that scrawny little guy in your mind, controlling you, would be scary, right?  Honestly, I don’t give it another thought.  Whatever Miles demands, I am happy to do.  It is like whenever the time comes to carry out his instructions, my mind goes blank, and I **_have_** to do what he’s commanded me to do.

Miles unglues my bottom from the couch, but then he has me crow like a rooster, and then jump up and dance the hula whenever he says a key phrase.  Later, I am convinced I am Shirley Temple and happily sing “Good Ship Lollipop,” although I don’t know all the words.  And then I am hypnotized to see everyone in the audience as a cute teddy bear.

I go for all of his suggestions without any hesitation.

*****

Later in the show, Miles puts all us girls back to sleep, and then tells us that when next we awake, we will believe the show to be over, and we want to talk about our experiences being hypnotized.  But as we talk, we will grow hotter and hotter, and we want to take off our dresses.

Normally, I’d be enraged at the suggestion that I remove my clothing in front of any man who is not my boyfriend, my future husband, or my doctor.  But slumbering in Miles’ enchanted spell, I know I have no choice.  When I am next awakened, I will obey him.  I am strangely content to be so controlled.

And then Miles counts us up, and I am waking with the other hypnotized girls.  The instant my eyes open, my mind goes blank, and…

*****

I just forgot what I am supposed to do.  What was it?  I know Miles gave me instructions, but…  his words are gone from my mind.

Wait…  is it hot in here, or is it me?

Miles is talking to the other girls, but I’m so uncomfortable…  Man, a large bead of sweat just rolled down my back.  My dress feels like it is made from heavy burlap.  Oh golly…  I’ve got to get it off.

Without thinking about what I’m doing too much, I stand, unzip myself, and shimmy a bit to work my dress off my shoulders and then hips.  It flutters to the ground, and then I feel the cool air on my arms, legs, and torso.  I yank off my evening gloves, for good measure.  Ohhhhh… yeah, that feels nice.

Drinking in this relief, I smile.

Around me, the other girls are following my lead and squirming out of their dresses too.  But I’m suddenly aware that all male eyes are fixated on me.  In nothing but my brassiere and underpants, my swelling chest, thin waist, and hourglass hips are on full display.

Yes, I am perfectly aware of all the men gaping at my luscious body.  The other girls, even though they are half-naked, are ignored.

“Holy **_shit_** ,” a fellow whispers, mesmerized by my figure.  Even Miles seems thrown.

In the corner of my eye, I see Duke suddenly appear at Miles’ side, whispering in the skinny boy’s ear.

Then Miles approaches me.  “Look at me, Tricia,” he commands.

I gaze into his eyes.  Suddenly, I am spellbound.  I can’t look away, nor can I think for myself.  I’m transfixed.

“When I snap my fingers,” Miles tells me, “you will tell me in a loud, clear voice how you met our Greg.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say woodenly.

Those skinny fingers click.

Then I hear my own voice saying:  “I work as a Playboy Bunny.  Greg and I met at the Playboy Club downtown.”

There are audible gasps from the non-hypnotized in the room.

Miles looks worried.  “Eh, when I snap my fingers this time,” he tells me quickly, “you will forever forget that you’ve told us this.”  He snaps again.

I blink, my thoughts jumbled for a second.  What had Miles and I just been talking about?  I’m not sure.  Probably isn’t important.

*****

Later, we girls are back on the couch, back in that wonderful deep sleep.  As I lay flopped over, I hear Duke’s harsh voice whispering something to Miles.  I can’t make anything out, but its clear that Duke is issuing orders.

“Alright, ladies,” Miles announces at last.  “Now to wrap up our show, we’re going into really, really deep hypnosis.  I will count down, from twenty to one.  With each number, you will go a million times deeper into trance.  Soon, after the first three numbers or so, you will lose awareness of everything.  Your minds will **_completely_** go to sleep.  You will have no memory nor any desires of your own.  You will be so deeply hypnotized, you will be my complete, willing slaves.  Do you understand?”

I sigh inside.  More relaxation?  Going deeper?  That sounds wonderful.

Miles begins counting…

…and soon I am aware of nothing at all.

*****

And then…

I dimly hear Miles counting, yet again.

Now he’s counting up, not down.  Why does that matter?

I realize that I’m aware of my own thoughts and my body.  I’m slowly waking up.

When Miles hits the last number, I sit up, blinking.  I’m pretty confused.  What just happened?  I feel like I had just had a deep, powerful, crazy dream.  But I can’t remember any of it.  I try to recall something, anything, but…

Nope.  Those weird sensations are gone.

I shake my head.  I remember now.  A bunch of us girls were seated on these couches, and that Miles kid tried to hypnotize us.  Poor guy.  He’d really gone all-out, but…

Well, fortunately, hypnotism doesn’t work on me.

I look around.  The other girls are rubbing their eyes, yawning, and standing up.  Funny thing; they are all in their underwear.  What happened to their dresses?  This seems odd.

Wait a minute, I’m **_also_** in my undies.  What the heck?  My dress is over there, crumpled on the floor.  How did that happen?

A sudden thought appears in my mind:  Its **_completely_** natural to attend a big party like this and walk around in your underwear.  I am utterly convinced of this notion.  I don’t feel embarrassed in the slightest.

I rise to my feet and am about to collect my dress when a big hand snatches it from the floor.

“Here you are, dollface,” the hand’s owner says.

I break out into a big grin.  Duke!  Duke, my wonderful boyfriend.  He’s retrieved my dress for me.  What a big sweetie.

“Thanks, baby,” I coo, and throw my arms around his thick neck.  I kiss him, playfully.

Duke smirks in that adorable way of his, and presses against me to smooch again.  His huge arms wrap around my body and I feel his huge erection growing in his pants.  I giggle.  Its fun arousing him.

We kiss a second time, letting our tongues dance over one another.  I’m getting aroused myself.

“Hey,” my hunky boyfriend says.  “Let’s go upstairs.”

Upstairs?  That means sex.

Oh my god!  I’m superexcited to have sex with my **_boyfriend_** , Duke!  I take his hand, giggling some more.

“Let’s go, stud,” I say playfully.

Duke grins again, and leads me from the room.

As we exit, I catch a glimpse of that Greg guy.  Duke and Greg are in the same fraternity, I think.  I wonder why Greg looks so forlorn?  Maybe he just needs to find a good woman.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

Upstairs there is a small bedroom.  Its obvious no-one actually lives in here, as there are no personal effects, no clothes in the closet, and just a few random books on the shelves.  Duke ushers me in, then closes and locks the door.  There is an overhead light, but my boyfriend only clicks on the reading lamp on the bedside table; this casts the little room in a soft but dim light.

I beam at Duke.  I can’t quite remember how we met, but why does that matter?  We’re an item now.

Duke indicates that I am to stand in the center of the carpet while he sits on the twin bed.  A lazy grin lights up his handsome face.

“Take it all off, dollface,” he drawls.

My hands move automatically to my brassiere clips.  One quick flick of my fingers, and the garment is free, tumbling off my chest and down to my feet.  I smile as Duke stares at my naked breasts.  In the soft light, my pearly skin seems to glow.  I feel sexy, desired.

I turn about, sliding off my undies.  As I bend over slightly, I make sure to arch my back like a cat, so my bottom points a little bit upward.  Men love that.

As I step out of my heels and realize I am completely naked, a small part of me wonders… what the heck am I **_doing?_**   I’ve never stripped nude for anyone like this before.  Working at the Club, I know most men are dying for the show I’m giving Duke right now.

So why am I so submissive?

Hmm.  I’m not sure.  Duke is my wonderful boyfriend, of course, and his very presence makes me, well, horny.  But there’s something else.

As I swivel about to face Duke once more, I realize: its like Duke has me under a spell.  Even now as he greedily stares at me, I know: I’ll do whatever he wants.  I **_have_** to do whatever he wants.

In a weird way… this feels all wrong.  I’m not sure how or why, but I feel like I’m in a dream, or in a play, acting out a role.  My own thoughts seem somehow frozen, and what I’m feeling and doing is happening while the larger part of me is asleep.  Its doesn’t make any sense, but that’s how it feels to me.

Maybe if I flirt a little, I’ll feel more like myself.  I playfully approach Duke, spreading his legs and standing between his knees.  I lean forward, making sure my breasts are right at his eye level.

“I know what you are,” I whisper with a naughty smile.

Duke’s hands rest on my hips.  He pulls me closer so he can start kissing my breasts.

“You’re a _scallywag_ ,” I tease, gently poking him with one finger.

My boyfriend’s reaction is immediate and hostile.  “The fuck you call me?” he snarls, pushing me away a little.  There is danger in his eyes.

I cringe.

“Nothing!” I say quickly, mortified at Duke’s anger.

Duke slaps me, once, right across the cheek.  I nearly tumble to the floor in shock.

“Don’t ever fucking disrespect me,” Duke warns, pointing at me with menace.

“No, Duke,” I say quickly, shrinking back.

My boyfriend glowers, but seems content at my submission.

“Get on the bed,” he orders.  “Then spread your legs.”

I hurry to obey.  In fact, I can’t stop myself.

Soon I am sitting on the pillow, my back against the headboard, my legs wide open.  Duke stares in amazement at my vagina, his thick fingers already probing me, just a little.

I’m still in shock from his violent reaction.  What the hell?  I’m certain I’ve teased my boyfriend by calling him a _scallywag_ before.  Its one of the ways we flirt with one another.

I wince as Duke’s fingers push inside me.  I’m not wet.  Instinctively, I grab his wrist and push his hand away.

There’s a moment where Duke glares at me again, and I wonder if I’m about to be hit again.

But my boyfriend relaxes.  “Okay then,” he allows.  “Touch yourself.  Make yourself moist for me.”

“Yes Duke,” I reply quickly.  My own fingers dip in between my lips, then gently begin probing my womanly parts.  I begin breathing quickly.

 ** _What am I doing?!?_**   Maryanne was a Bunny at the Club as recently as a month ago.  I don’t know what happened exactly, but Maryanne disappeared with a customer into of the upstairs supply closets, a huge no-no.  When they were caught by management, Maryanne had removed her bottoms and was fingering her own vagina while the customer watched.  Apparently he’d offered her a hundred dollars or something.

Of course Maryanne was fired on the spot.  Bunnies are permitted to be sexy, but we are considered to be refined young women.  Only the lowest of tramps would **_masturbate_** in front of another gentleman.

But here I am, stroking away, feeling myself glisten as Duke watches with deep satisfaction.  This isn’t like me.  This isn’t like me at all.

“Faster,” orders Duke.

“Yes Duke,” I say between gasps, and I feel my fingers speed up.

“I am your master,” says Duke suddenly, as if the thought just occurred to him.

“Yes master,” I pant without hesitation.

As confused I am about my strange behavior, I also am growing quite aroused.  I don’t pleasure myself often, but now…  **_Mmmmmm_** …  My strokes do feel good.

I close my eyes and lean back, going even faster now.  As I submit to my growing orgasm, I imagine having sex with my boyfriend Greg.  As his naked body presses against me, I feel his cock, his thick, powerful cock, tasting me and pushing in deeper and deeper and-

Wait.  Greg?  Greg’s not my boyfriend.  **_Duke’s_** my boyfriend.  Why was I thinking about that Greg guy?

“ ** _Ohhh…!_** ” I hear my husky voice moan, over and over.  I’m getting close.  So very, very close…!

Suddenly I feel Duke’s hands clamp onto the inners of my thighs.  He’s lowered his body to the mattress and now his head is pushing forward.  My own hands are shoved aside.

No!  I’m so close, so, **_so, so, close!_**  

Duke presses his nose into my crotch, forcing my hips up a bit with his hands.  What’s he doing?

Suddenly I feel his lips on my lips, hungry and aggressive.  Duke works his jaw, sucking at me with a violent force.  I cry out, in surprise and pleasure.

“Shut the fuck up,” Duke growls, and then attacks me harder.  His lips slobber over me, saliva dribbling in all directions.  And then…

Oh God!  His tongue!  I feel what must be his tongue wriggle forward, inserting itself into me.  Its like being pleasured by an aggressive slug.  The slug stokes me, once, twice, three times, more!  Again and again and again…

Ohhhh!  My muscles begin to convulse.  The waves of pleasure ripple through me, and I feel my eyes roll back in their sockets.  I am gasping for breath.

I instinctively want to jump out of this bed, because the sensations Duke is feeding me are almost too much to bear.  But his arms have wrapped around my legs, and I am pinned.  I can only hang on.

As I lose control, my fingers try to grip Duke’s short haircut.  Its like trying to move a stone by lifting it with the moss.

I…

Duke suddenly thrusts even harder, and suddenly I am cumming.  Oh, am I cumming!  I can’t stop it.  I literally can’t stop myself.

And now it feels like a bucket of gooey fluid is spilling out of me, washing over Duke, the bed, the room, the whole world.  I screech with delight and torment.

But Duke sucks on, and I can’t take any more.  I use up the last of my energy and collapse, a limp rag doll, covered in sweat.  My heart and lungs are working in over time.

Duke slows, and mercifully, his tongue withdraws.  I feel him release me, rising up off the bed.  His fly unzips, and I hear his pants descend.

“Get on your knees,” Duke growls.

I try to reply: “Yes master.”  But my voice is parched and broken.  And my limbs are tingling and not in my control.

Duke swears and seizes me by the hips again.  With a violent jerk, he flips me over, nearly crashing my face into the headboard.  I catch myself just in time.

And before I can collect my body or wits, I feel my legs and buttocks spread.  Duke positions me in less than a second, and then his cock is pounding away inside me.  No teasing, no foreplay; just full-blast fucking, immediately.

I grunt and claw at the bed, the headboard, the side table, anything to brace myself.  Oh, it feels soooooooo good.  Duke fucks me as if he were determined to smash me through the wall with the strength of his penis.  Each thrust is more forceful than the last.  I hear him mumble and snarl as he works.

Oh God, why am I so horny again?  I just had an earth-shattering orgasm, how can I be so close once again?

Duke hammers me even harder, probably splitting my vagina like a cord of wood.  I feel his crotch slap against me violently.  I-

Ohhhhhh ** _hhhhh!!!_**   I begin cumming again.  How can I be cumming **_once again?_**   How is this possible?

I shriek with joy.

*****

Duke and I lay side-by-side on the bed, naked and exhausted.  Both of us are simply trying to catch our breath.  I’m on my side, facing my boyfriend; Duke is lying belly-down, his head turned away from me.

Eventually, Duke lurches to his feet, slapping my bottom once as he does.

“Stay here,” he grunts.  “I want to do one more thing with you.”

Duke pulls on his clothes quickly and stumbles from the tiny bedroom.

I lie motionless for a moment, before shakily rising.  Where are my clothes?

I blink, realizing my hair is an absolute mess.  Lord knows what has happened to my makeup – there’s no mirror in here.

The door bangs open, and I jump a little.  Duke charges back in, with that Miles kid in tow.

I shriek, quickly covering my nakedness as best I can with my hands.

“Whoa,” Miles gapes, staring at my body.

Duke grunts, shutting the door.  “Put her out,” he rumbles.

Before I know what is going on, Miles snaps his fingers before my eyes.  “ ** _Sleep!_** ” he tells me.

My eyes shut, and I descend back into perfect relaxation.  I remember nothing.

*****

An hour later, the mixer is over and the fraternity brothers are trudging back to their lodgings.  I dress and wait for the crowd to disperse in that little bedroom before I emerge for my Walk of Shame.

But I’m a little taken aback when Duke doesn’t want to escort me back to the Playboy dormitory, if only to make sure I get home safely.  A single girl on the streets, after all, is at some risk.  And it seems like escorting me is something my boyfriend should do.

But I get lucky, and immediately catch a cab on the street.  Within an hour, I’m safe at home in my own bed.

As I stare at the ceiling, I wonder:  Why does everything seem so jumbled-up?  I just had great sex with my boyfriend.  And he’s wonderful.  I just might be the luckiest girl in Manhattan.

But then something weird happens…  As I wait for sleep, the memories of the evening start to dissolve within my mind.  Soon I can’t… remember…

I… can’t remember…

…

*****

I wake up the next morning, my brain still feeling fuzzy.  The heck…?  I squint in the bright sunlight.

After showering and dressing, I climb out on the dormitory fire escape and light a cigarette.  Beneath me, the Saturday morning traffic is still slugging down the street.  I absently watch, my mind churning.

I can’t remember anything from last night, **_nothing_**.  I feel like I should be able to remember, but…  Its weird.  I have total block where the events of last night should be.

Well, that’s not totally true.  I remember Greg and me meeting at the coffee house before the party.  What a silly goose, my boyfriend.  Why did Greg want to look me over before that party?

I recall walking down the block to the party, and then… nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The next thing I remember is waking up this morning.  Its like last night never, ever happened.  Maybe I was abducted by a UFO or something?

I finish my cigarette and flick the butt into the street.  I won’t have to be at work for hours.  I need to do my laundry, but I can put it off for a while.

Maybe Greg wants to meet for brunch?  So I phone his apartment number.

Strange, Greg doesn’t pick up.  He should be home.  What in the world is going on today?

*****

I am late for work, thanks to an unexpected rainstorm.  Man, its suddenly cold outside!  The resulting street traffic makes me twenty minutes late to work.  Goddamnit.

Once at the Club, I wriggle into my Bunny costume.  Blast!  I forgot my high heels!  With no other choice, I nick a spare pair from Nicole’s locker.  She won’t mind.  I hope.

I then restock my cigar tray, taking care to recite my fake cigar expertise as I work.  Bolívar Greys: _rich aroma, but subtle aftertaste…_   The 5 Vegas: _A burly cigar, not for the timid…_   Montecristos:  _A classic, from Havana.  President Kennedy’s favorite…_   The Graycliff:  _Rough taste, rumored to be a favorite of Al Capone’s…_   Blah blah blah.

*****

Our Saturday night crowd is pretty thin.  Maybe it’s the lousy weather?  I make my full rounds in less than fifteen minutes, and only sell three cigars.

Hmm.  On slow nights like this, I’m supposed to strike up a witty banter with the gentlemen.  Ugh.  Witty banter is always misinterpreted as sexual interest, and then a customer makes a pass at you.  I just don’t want to get my bottom pinched.

I’m about to fake a reason to take a potty break when I turn and notice two customers.  They stand out because they are young; very, very young.  Early twenties, both of them.  This is quite odd.  Middle-aged men come to the Playboy Club; young men never bother.

These two young guys must have come in with older gentlemen.  That’s not terribly unusual.  Greg, after all, was hauled into the club by an eager relative, remember?

The young gentlemen survey the club before their eyes fall on me.  I smile politely.

My Lord, the bigger of the two must be a weightlifter or something; he’s **_huge!_**   All muscle.  Handsome, too, although he’s not my kind of cute.  Still, most of my girlfriends wouldn’t kick him out of bed.   The other fellow is smaller, terribly thin, and even younger.  Both gents are in upscale suits; that means they come from money.

When our eyes meet, both of the young men approach.

I force a welcoming smile.  “Welcome to the Playboy Club, gentlemen,” I purr.  “May I interest you in a cigar?”

The young guys exchange glances, grinning wider.  “She doesn’t recollect a thing,” the thin guy says, as if I don’t have ears.  “That’s pretty amazing.”

“I’m sorry,” I interject, my smile fading somewhat.  “Have you gentlemen been here before?”

“No, first-timers,” the muscle-bound fellow assures me.  He extends a meaty hand.  “I’m Duke.”

The other guy offers his mitt too.  “Miles,” he supplies.

I awkwardly shake hands from behind my cigar tray.  At least they didn’t try to hug me and kiss my cheek.

“So,” Duke asks me, trying to sound casual, “you sell cigars at the Playboy Club, eh?”

A master of observation, this one.  “I do,” I reply coolly.  “Can I interest you gentlemen in a Baccarat Gold, perhaps?  A rich flavor, with a pinch of cinnamon and-“

“Where do we go to see you take your clothes off?” Duke interrupts.

Inside, I groan.  New customers often assume that we Bunnies pose naked, as if the Club is a live-action version of the magazine.  I have a standard text to recite in moments like this.

“He means,” Miles interjects quickly, “where can the three of us be alone?  For just a few minutes?”

“Sorry gentlemen,” I say firmly, “there are no private rooms here at the Playboy Club.”

The two boys exchange glances again.  “Can we do it here?” Duke asks his companion.

Miles looks about.  “I guess we’ll have to try,” he concedes.

I’m about to extract myself from this icky conversation when Miles presses two fingertips on my forehead.  “Look at me, please,” he orders.

Suddenly, I feel weird.  My head and arms and legs feel heavy.  The room seems immense and maybe the lights dim?  I’m not sure.  My thoughts are confused.

“Give us your tray,” Miles commands.

Give up my tray?  Sure, that seems fine.  Whatever this Miles guy wants…

I allow Duke to lift the tray straps over my head.  As the tray is set down on the floor beside me, I feel my arms fall limp to the side.  The whole time, I can’t break my gaze into Miles’ deep, deep eyes.  Its like his stare has mesmerized me.  My thoughts become sluggish.

Miles stands closer to me, and his young face fills my field of vision.  “You feel relaxed,” he tells me.  “So relaxed.  Returning now to that wonderful feeling of relaxation and no worries.  Go deeper.  Go deeper…!”

I’m not sure what’s happening, but Miles’ voice is so comforting and hypnotic.  And I am relaxing deeper and deeper.  Funny, I feel as if I haven’t a care in the world.  I want to do whatever Miles tells me.

The skinny boy talks on, filling my head with reassuring thoughts.  I am calm, detached, and blissful.  In the back of my mind, I know I’m at work, but… I just don’t care.  I like what Miles is doing to me.  I want to obey.

Miles yammers of a little more, then withdraws his fingers.  My eyes close by themselves.

“There,” I hear Miles say, sounding a little nervous.  “That’s as deep as I dare take her.”

“She’s under?” Duke asks, surprised and suspicious.

“Somewhat,” allows Miles.  The younger boy sounds fearful.  “We can’t do what we did last time, but-“

“Just make her believe she’s mine,” demands Duke, impatient.

Miles speaks to me again.  I listen intently, yet remember nothing of what he says.

“That’s it?” asks Duke, surprised.

Inside my sleepy head, I smile a little.  That’s Duke, my wonderful boyfriend!  Oh, he came to the Club to see me!  How sweet…!

“We have to be careful what we say,” Miles says in a hushed whisper.  “Tricia here is in a highly suggestable state.  That means she’s liable to believe whatever we say or-“

A new male voice cuts into my relaxed bliss: “Say, what’s going on here?”

Startled, my eyes flutter open.  A small gaggle of middle-aged customers have surrounded Miles and wonderful Duke and me.  They stare at my sleepy face, curious.

I’m still super-relaxed and super-happy.  I smile lazily and take Duke’s arm.

One of the balder men’s eyes light up.  “Chuckie!” he exclaims to Duke.  “Good God man, when you said you and your friend wanted to come here, I had no idea you’d be seducing the Bunny girls!”

(“ _Chuckie???_ ”)

The middle-aged men chuckle wickedly, waggling their eyebrows at one another.

“Yeah, Uncle Billy-” Duke begins.

“You’ll have to show Stevens here how you work your magic,” the older fellow exclaims, clapping a friend on the back.  “His divorce just finalized, you know.  He could use a Bunny around the house.  Looks like you’ve already got yours.”

I smile and lean my head on Duke’s massive shoulder.  I am Duke’s Bunny, aren’t I?

This provokes a loud reaction from the customers.  Strangely, Duke seems mildly embarrassed.

“You bagged the cigar girl!” Uncle Billy says proudly.  “She’s quite the expert on cigars, this one.  Isn’t that right, dear?”

I blink.  An expert?  Why, yes.  I **_am_** an expert on cigars.

Uncle Billy and his friends are swarming around me like flies to honey.  Its as if they hope they can siphon off Duke’s manly charm and claim me for themselves.  I’m so relaxed and happy, I don’t care.

In the corner of my eye, I see the other Bunnies watching, aghast.  I’m fraternizing with the customers as if I will date all of them.  But somehow, I can’t help myself.

“I’d like a cigar!” exclaims one of Uncle Billy’s friends.  “Dearie, can you help me with one?”

Me?  Of course.  I’m a cigar expert.

I take charge.  “Here,” I snap, “you need a Tatuaje; subtle taste, but for the rugged.  You’ll love it.”

I pluck a Tatuaje from my discarded tray, popping it into the gentleman’s mouth.  I have completely forgotten that he has to pay for it.

Although Duke looks mortified, the other men press in, eagerly hoping for my attention.  “What cigar should I smoke, dearie?” they ask over and over.

I feel oddly confident and in control.  Because I’m a **_cigar expert_** , I know **_exactly_** what cigar every gentleman should be paired up with.  Now I distribute the smokes like I’m handing out Halloween candy, including a sly little comment here or a playful flirt there.  The customers are ecstatic.

When everyone has a cigar between their smiling teeth, Uncle Billy presses against me.  “Say, young lady,” he says coyly, “you wouldn’t help me get this lit, would you?”

Duke leans forward, concerned.  “Uncle Billy-“ he tries.

But I fail to pick up on my wonderful boyfriend’s alarm.  “Of course!” I promise Uncle Billy, snatching his cigar and popping it between my own lips.

Delighted, Uncle Billy thrusts a chrome lighter into my hands.

As I fumble with the lighter, I regard the cigar.  “A 5 Vegas,” I remark through my clenched teeth.  “A **_burly_** cigar, not for the timid.”  Then I concentrate on applying flame to tobacco.

I’m a cigar expert.  I must have smoked a million of these things; why do I suddenly seem like I have no idea what I’m doing?

I’ve watched customers light up before, of course.  Why, they hold the flame against the cigar tip while puffing away.  I guess they do that because… well, I’m not sure why they do that.  But I now I huff and suck and inhale away like the pro I am.

There… there we go… that’s about done it…  Yes!  The cigar’s lit!  I fill my lungs, and-

Oh.  Oh, God.

**_Oh God!!!  FUCK ME!!!  I can’t breathe  --  I’m being poisoned!!!_ **

I stagger, dropping cigar and lighter as my knees buckle.  I’m certain I just swallowed a live eel or something truly disgusting.  My head spins and I gag and pitch forward.

The customers roar with laughter, delighted.  In my confused haze, I reach for Duke.  There he is; my hand clutches his suit coat.  He’s trying to pull away from me, but I really need him…

Before I can stop myself, I feel my stomach heave.  My muscles lurch forward.

I vomit.  All over Duke.

The men laugh even louder, but are backing off.  My head is spinning.  I feebly glance up at my boyfriend.  Duke is glaring down at me, his expression outraged and shocked.

I manage the weakest of smiles… and then vomit again.  All over his pressed slacks and Italian shoes.

*****


	5. Chapter 5

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

An hour later, I am in the Girls’ Break room, dressed in a borrowed shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers and clutching a large tea in a Styrofoam cup.  Thank God Bethany had these old clothes in her locker.  After that emergency shower, my hair is sopping wet and wrapped in a musky-smelling towel.  I feel like roadkill from head to toe.

Well, at least my stomach has stopped flopping about.  That’s something.  I sip the tea, lost in thought.

Jeez, where to begin assessing the damage from tonight?

Well, first things first.  While the manager was none too happy about a Bunny puking over a customer, apparently there won’t be any repercussions to my employment.  Duke, it seems, had treated the Club staff like dirt, verbally berating our coat check Bunny and then the bartender.  So there was no love lost when he stormed out of the premises, covered in my half-digested lunch.

And the middle-aged customers who witnessed the whole affair?  They thought it was hilarious that a weak little Bunny like me couldn’t handle a man’s cigar.  The whole incident affirmed their sexist belief that men are the dominant gender, or something.  Whatever.  As long as they aren’t offended, I don’t care.  They can believe what they like.

I sigh, watching a tendril of steam rise off my tea.  Oh, the instant I threw up, all the hypnotism was washed from my mind.  I was freed, in one violent (and stinky) moment.  I remember it all.  What Miles commanded me to do and believe.  What Duke made me do once we were in the bedroom.  I remember it all.

I sip the tea again.  Ah, now its starting to cool a bit.  Tastes good.

Enough about Duke.  I turn my thoughts to the fraternity boy I’m really worried about.

Greg.

Oh God…

I sigh.

I haven’t seen Greg since I went under Miles’ spell.  What must he be thinking?

Does he think we’re broken up?  Will he want to see me again?

Suddenly I don’t feel so well again.

*****

The weekend ends, and no sign nor word from Greg.  Before the party, he and I would sometimes go a few days without calling one another.  But this time, I sense the silence is different.

I grow sick with worry.  Have I lost him?  Does he hate me?  Would be believe me if I tried to explain what happened?

*****

Finally, I can’t stand the suspense.  Better to know for sure if he wants to dump me than to wait in doubt.

I train to Greenwich Village, asking four different strangers how to find Alice’s Rabbit Hole.  There is it, right where Greg described.  That bakery next door looks tasty.

I push my way into the bookshop, wishing the bell on the door wasn’t so loud.  It is dark in here, but very clean and well-organized.  An older man in half-moon spectacles sits behind the desk, reading and smoking a pipe.  He stares at me as I enter.

Am I wearing something too showy?  I am in my grey overcoat, with a sweater, jeans, and high boots beneath that.  My hair is loosely pinned up, and I’m wearing minimal makeup.  I don’t think I look too sexy, but who knows?

“May I help you?” the man asks, somewhat suspiciously.

With a thud in my heart, I suddenly recognize the old guy; this is one of the gentlemen who visited the Club when I met Greg, so many nights ago.  Oh God!  He’s a customer!  What if he recognizes me?

“Um… “ I say meekly.  “I’m looking for Greg McGallows…?”

The older man frowns a little, but indicates a door in the back of the room.  I mumble thanks and hurry through.

*****

The back room is a mini-warehouse, with many metal shelves holding cardboard boxes and stacks of books.  This room is also immaculately clean, although it smells kinda dusty.

I blink in the weak light.  There, in the back, is Greg, seated at desk, diligently working.  He has three books open before him; I’m guessing he’s laboring on schoolwork.

My heart flops as Greg looks up.  Our eyes connect.

“Hi,” I say quietly.

Greg doesn’t respond.  He studies me carefully, betraying nothing.  His lack of expression begins to fill me with dread.

I approach slowly.  “Hey,” I say.  “Can we talk?”

“About what?” frowns Greg.

Oh, God.  He **_does_** blame me.  I feel my heart sink.

“What happened at the party…” I begin, then run out of words.  “I don’t know, I guess…”

Greg sets down his pencil and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“I didn’t think I could be hypnotized,” I blurt out.  “If I’d known, I’d never…  I don’t know…”

Sighing, Greg rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I wanted to kill Duke,” he admits.  “For what he did.  But I wanted to kill you, too.  I mean, you had sex with him, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I say.  The dread is mounting inside me.

I swallow, desperately realizing I don’t have the words to explain how being entranced really feels.  I’m not even sure I could explain it to myself.

Greg’s face is stony.  I’m losing him.  Hell, I’ve probably already lost him.  A part of me wants to cry.

“I can’t explain it,” I say lamely.  “The whole time, I felt like… like I was having this really weird dream, and there were weird things happening in the dream, and I was just going along with it.”

I gesture helplessly.

Greg doesn’t respond.  He’s not buying what I’m telling him.

Time to go for broke.  “Look,” I press.  “I’m ashamed of what those slimeballs did to me.  What they made me believe.  But I **_never_** meant to betray you.  I wish we’d never gone to that stupid party.”

Greg casts his eyes downward.

There is an awful silence.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too desperate.

“I don’t know what to think,” scowls Greg.

I’m stuck.  Greg has never been hypnotized, so he can’t know what its like to have that wonderful voice in your head, telling you what to do.  I can’t reach him by trying to explain what happened to me; he’ll never understand.

But as I study him, I think… Greg **_does_** miss me.  He’s not so much angry than dismayed at what happened.

I play a hunch.

I hurry to him, then drop to one knee, so I am in his field of vision again.  “I have an idea,” I say softly.

“What’s that?” Greg asks.

Moving slowly, I take his hands in mine.

“Why don’t you just… choose to forgive?” I ask quietly.  “I promise I won’t get hypnotized again and you promise to keep an open mind.  And maybe there’s a tomorrow after that.”

“That is,” I add in a soft, fake-serious voice, “assuming you aren’t such a stuffy ol’ **_stick-in-the-mud_** the whole time.”

Greg studies me.  A tiny smile escapes from his lips.

“You know what you are?” Greg whispers.  “You’re a scallywag.”

“Me?” I say, in mock offense.

“ ** _Scall-lee-wag,_** ” teases Greg.

Delighted, I smile and lean forward to kiss him.

*****


End file.
